


The Joys of Canoodling

by helsinkibaby



Series: Tests of Faith [9]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-07-09
Updated: 2002-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-13 14:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2154183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Manchester</i> post ep. Just what is Toby's problem with Doug?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Joys of Canoodling

I stand and watch Charlie walk away and it strikes me that this pool table hasn't been especially lucky for me so far tonight. The first person that I played was CJ, who can't play pool worth a damn, and who tonight didn't even try to play, instead rolling the balls into the pockets one by one. I tried to talk to her about what's going on with her; told her that Leo told me what she was planning to do, giving her an avenue to talk to me about it if she wanted to.

She didn't.

After that, I challenged Charlie to a game. I expected to at least get to the table. Well, to be honest, I expected more than that. I certainly didn't expect to be relegated to the role of interested, if somewhat stunned, spectator.

I'm just wondering if I'll ever get to actually play a decent game of pool when there's a familiar voice behind me. "Penny for your thoughts."

I turn, and look into the blue eyes of my wife, and instantly, I feel any bad mood that I may have been in begin to dissipate. Although I'd never admit that to anyone here - although I’m sure that at this stage, most people know this anyway - she has that kind of effect on me. Which may just be one of the reasons why Leo made damn sure she's on this trip with us, because the way things are going, with Josh and the RU-486 announcement, with CJ and what's going on in her mind, with this speech, he had to know that I was going to need some sort of safety valve. And that's what she is.

That, and so much more.

I feel myself smile looking at her. "It'll take more than that to make up the money I just lost to Charlie."

She grins, hands in her pockets, shrugging her shoulders slightly. She's wearing faded blue jeans and a deep green T-shirt, and with her hair swinging around her shoulders, she looks more like a college co-ed than the married assistant to the White House Communications Director. "Twenty bucks for your thoughts?" she tries again, reaching for a cue.

"You don't expect me to bet with you, do you?" I ask, but I'm already racking the balls as I talk.

"Well…" Her voice is low and full of mirth. "Not for money anyway…"

I look up from the pool table to see her leaning on her cue, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Funny girl," I say to her. "Your break."

I realise that there are many people who would object to the way that I'm studying Ginger as she leans over to strike the ball. I don't particularly care about those objections by the way, just recognising their existence. She certainly doesn't seem to be objecting to it if the look she gives me when she straightens up is anything to go by. "Your shot," she tells me. "How's CJ?"

I shake my head as I lean down. It was Ginger's idea for me to talk to CJ, once I told her what Leo had told me. I'd protested vigorously, telling her that CJ would come to me if she wanted to talk, and, standing in our hotel room, Ginger had shaken her head, which caused her to become distracted when her hairbrush got snagged in what sounded like a vicious tangle. "It's not about whether she wants to talk Toby," she'd pointed out to me, in her voice that says, "I'm right, I know I'm right and I will not be argued with." She swears she picked up that voice from me. "It's about that she needs to."

I'd grudgingly admitted that she did indeed have a point, and when I saw CJ sitting with Sam tonight, I went over to her, albeit with a hefty push from Ginger. For all the good it did me. "She's not talking about it Ginger. She totally stonewalled me."

The ball goes into the corner pocket, and I move around the table, noticing Ginger's eyebrow arch. "Gee," she comments, a smirk on her face. "Wonder what that's like?"

"Funny." I lean down to take my next shot, but her words have unnerved me slightly, and it misses by quite some way. One of my worst habits, and she's pointed this out to me on several occasions, is my tendency to take things on my own shoulders, and not discuss them with anyone, instead letting them eat me up inside. I've done that a couple of times in our marriage, for greater and lesser reasons, and the consequences have never been pretty. "I just don't want her to do something she's going to regret."

"Do you think he'd accept her resignation?" Ginger wonders, and she doesn’t move to take her shot.

I want to say no. I really, truly want to believe that. But I find myself only able to shrug. "I don't know."

Ginger stands still for another long moment, and a gesture from me reminds her that it's her turn now. She takes her shot, still in silence, and the ball moves smoothly into the pocket. Watching her walk around the table, eyeing up the balls carefully, I’m reminded of the time, early in our relationship, that I attempted to teach her how to play pool. She swore to me that she couldn’t play to save herself, and I readily volunteered to rectify that. We spent many an evening together, me showing her how to hold the cue, how to line up a shot, laughing over her total lack of co-ordination. I discovered wells of patience that I didn't know I possessed, although I was certainly enjoying the amount of time that we spent so close to one another during those lessons.

Then one night we went out and we decided to play a game, and she cleaned my clock.

Seems that Ginger has been playing pool since she was in high school, and knew well how to play; she just enjoyed getting lessons from me.

Although I will say that getting hustled by her is infinitely preferable to getting hustled by Charlie.

She straightens up and sees me staring at her, and her face contorts into a frown. "What?" she asks, and I shake my head.

"Nothing." She doesn't look like she believes me, but it's still her shot, so she goes back to pacing around the table. "Anything else to tell me?"

She shrugs, chalking the tip of her cue. "Nothing to report. Although I did hear that Doug was overheard on Air Force One, asking CJ why you didn't like him."

The remark makes me laugh out loud, as I'm sure it was meant to. "Tell me, does he want those in alphabetical or numerical order?" I grumble.

The fact of the matter is, I don't like Doug. Nor do I like Connie, nor do I like Bruno. I think that it's too early to have brought them in; I don't think that we need them at all. Left to our own devices, we can win this campaign, we don't need them to tell us how to do it.

As if that wasn't enough to have me disliking them, the fact that Doug is a slimy, arrogant creep with no respect for anything is certainly ample reason to make anyone dislike him. His constant carping on the fact that an apology should be included in the speech is getting on my nerves; as is the fact that the man can't write a decent phrase to save himself. I have spent many many hours over the last three years and during the campaign complaining about Sam's purple prose and lack of grammatical awareness, but believe me, I would give anything to just have that to complain about with Doug.

I might - and I do say might - have been able to get over that, if it hadn't been for what happened at the meeting where we were finalising the details of this trip.

It was in the Roosevelt Room, as most of our meetings on this subject were. Bruno was at the head of the table on one end, Leo on the other. Connie and Doug sat on one side of the table, on the other were Josh, CJ, Sam and myself. I should have been sitting on the other side, but I rather pointedly dragged the chair that was there over to the other side. Doug gave Bruno an exasperated look and Leo rolled his eyes, but the rest of the table didn't bat an eyelash. The assistants - Donna, Margaret, Carol, Ginger and Bonnie - were standing at the walls, taking notes, ready to jump in if it was required.

Not that it was. It was all going swimmingly until right at the very end when Bruno asked the question. "Who among the Senior Staff will be attending?"

"All of us," Josh said instantly. "I think it has to be, doesn’t it?"

"The campaign staff, showing a united front behind their President. Absolutely." CJ's words would have sounded better were it not for the flat tone in which she spoke, but we all nodded.

Doug of course had an objection. "You don't think that that sends a message?"

"Yes I do," I replied. "I think it sends a message that we believe in President Bartlet and that we got him elected because he's the best man for the job."

Doug wasn't finished. "Not that-"

"No." He was finished as far as I was concerned.

"What Doug means is," Connie, ever the peacemaker, interjected, "Is that it might appear to the public that the President was only elected because there was a cover-up of his illness, and that all of you appearing with him would reinforce the memory of that. You covered things up once; who knows what you're covering up now. That kind of thing."

"There was no cover-up," Sam said firmly.

"And there is no controversy." Leo put paid to the debate. "The President wants all the Senior Staff there. Plus, we need them there. What's next?"

"Support staff." Bruno seemed as eager to move on as Leo was.

"The usual people," I said, aware that Bruno was jotting down notes. "We'll select some aides from Communications to handle the press; CJ and I will staff that out. Maybe someone from the Counsel's office just in case. And our assistants. Donna, Margaret, Ginger, Bonnie…"

"Wait a minute." I wasn't finished the list, but Doug had his finger raised in objection anyway. "Ginger?"

I blinked, and could see the rest of my side of the table looking at one another. "Yes?"

Doug was seeing something that I couldn't, because he said, "Ginger. Your wife, Ginger?"

I narrowed my eyes, not sure of where he was going, but sure that I wouldn't like it. "My assistant Ginger," I corrected, making sure he was aware of the distinction.

Which I don't think he quite understood. "I'm not wild about that idea."

"What's not to like?" I asked, hearing some nervous shuffling behind me. "Ginger is my assistant; she frequently comes on trips like this one, and on a trip this important, we're going to need all the experienced people we can get."

"It's her experience that bothers me," Doug muttered, and I had to take a deep breath and grip my pen very tightly in both hands, otherwise I might just have thrown it at him. The muffled gasp that I heard behind me, and recognised as Ginger's, didn't help my mood any, but Sam beat me to the punch, slamming his closed fist down on the table.

"That is way out of line."

CJ was more outwardly calm than Sam, but I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was pretty pissed. Which, considering her recent moods, was something of a relief. "Ginger," she asked, half-turning in her seat. "How exactly are you qualified to do the job you do?"

"I have a Master's in Communications from NYU," came the quiet reply. "And I worked on the Bartlet for America campaign from February of 1998."

"Ginger's competence has never been questioned," Josh added.

One would think that Doug might know when he was beaten, but strangely not. "I'm just not sure that America would like the idea of the White House Communications Director and his wife canoodling on Air Force One."

I should have been appalled. I should have been outraged. What I was, was amused, and I laughed at that one. "Excuse me?" Around me, I could see the rest of the Senior Staff struggling to keep their faces straight. "Canoodle?"

"What I meant was…"

I didn't let him get a reply out. "Canoodle? Ginger," Like CJ before me, I half-turned in my seat to look at her. "Have we ever canoodled on Air Force One?"

"No." The reply is quiet, but decisive, and I almost thought that that was all she was going to say. I should have known better, because if it had been, she wouldn't be the Ginger that I know and love. She took a beat, then followed up with, "Although it's certainly not for the want of trying."

I pressed my lips together to keep back my laughter, and beside me, CJ's shoulders shook with the effort it was costing her to keep control. Josh didn't even bother to hide his grin, and there was a snort of laughter, hastily stifled, from Sam.

"This is great," Doug complained, throwing his hands up in the air. "What was that, was that supposed to be humour?"

"It's sass," Sam informed him. "She's very good at it."

Before Doug could say anything else, I seized control of the discussion. "This isn't up for discussion. Yes, Ginger is my wife, but she is also my assistant, and as such, she's coming to Manchester with us. I think that America will understand the reasons for that." I looked pointedly at Doug when I spoke. "We've done this before, and not once has there been a problem. And even if there were, the same people who would complain about her going would be the same people who would complain about lack of loyalty and family values if we left her behind." I looked at Leo then. "I can't believe we're even discussing this."

"Yeah." Leo slapped his hand on the table. "We're done here."

"So you're just-" Doug began, but stopped at Connie's hand on his arm.

"Yeah," Leo replied, standing and looking down at him. "Toby's right. Ginger's a valued member of this staff, and she's coming to Manchester. End of story." He nodded at me, then looked over at Ginger and nodded once at her, with a quick grin, before leaving.

So, over Doug's objections about how it would look, Ginger came to Manchester, and Doug really needn't have worried. Sam and I spent the entire flight locked in with the speechwriters, Ginger running around working with the other assistants, and there was no opportunity for canoodling. In fact, we came to the White House together this morning, and I didn't see her again until I got to the hotel here in Manchester. She'd already checked in and was in the shower when I arrived, and yes, I will admit that I joined her there. I'm sure I could make a case for care of the environment and water conservation if I was asked about it.

"Should I even ask how the speech is going?" she wonders now, because that was something that she didn't inquire about at the hotel. Between reacquainting ourselves with each other, so to speak, and worrying about CJ, and finalising plans for tonight, it didn't come up.

I glare at her. "It's going." I took a pause. "To hell in a handbasket."

She chuckles, then groans, because my pause there was to give her enough time to set up the shot, the second part of my answer timed to make her lose her concentration so that she'd miss.

She's endearingly predictable, my wife.

"That's dirty pool," she accuses, standing her ground beside the table, narrowing her eyes at me.

I shrug, going over to her, resting my free hand on her hip. "Whatever it takes," I tell her lightly, bending my head to hers, kissing her. I intend it to be a quick kiss, but she presses herself closer to me, her free hand going to the back of my head, holding me in place.

Things are just getting interesting when I hear a sound that I really don't want to hear, a voice calling my name. When we pull away from each other, my feelings of annoyance and reluctance are reflected on her face, and I turn, still keeping my hand on Ginger's hip, to face Doug.

"What is this?" he blusters, brandishing several pages of print in his hand. "What are you doing Toby?"

"Canoodling," Ginger deadpans, an angelic expression on her face, and I have to look away quickly before I burst out laughing. Doug gives her a poisonous look, her response to which is to look even more innocent and angelic, if such a thing were possible.

"What, you don't recognise it when you see it?" I ask, assessing my options on the pool table, wondering if they'd get any better if I imagined that the balls are Doug's head. Mind you, it's not a bad comparison.

"I'm talking about the speech." Maybe he's learning, because he left that one well enough alone. "It's midnight in America? What the hell?"

"It's a work in progress," I tell him tersely, leaning down to line up my shot. "I'm working on it."

"Yeah," Doug mutters. "Because it looked like you were working real hard when you were feeling up your ass-"

The cue ball meets another, not the one I intended, with a resounding smack, and both balls spin in crazy directions, causing chaos all over the pool table. I straighten up, throwing the cue down on the table, advancing on Doug. The good mood that I'd discovered only minutes ago has long gone; even my irritation with Doug has gone.

Now I'm furious.

Not even her hand on my arm, her voice low, warning, "Toby," can calm me.

"Let's get something straight Doug," I tell him, my voice, surprisingly enough, not loud or angry in any way. "I don't know how you do things in Oregon, but I'm from Brooklyn. And in Brooklyn, we like a man to show some respect. This woman is not some object that you can demean, or belittle. She is not here for you to put down so that you can make yourself feel important. She is here to do a job, just like you are. She is my assistant, but she is also-" and I put special emphasis on that word- "My wife. And as such, you will treat her with respect at all times. Because one more derogatory comment from you about her and you won't like the consequences." I pause to let that sink in. "Is that clear enough for you?"

Her hand is still on my arm, and I look down at her, placing my hand over hers. Her face is carefully neutral, although I can see that her eyes are dancing. And while I wouldn't expect Doug to notice, I can detect the beginnings of a huge smile hovering around her lips. Our heads turn at the same time to Doug, who is looking from one to the other, clearly uncomfortable. "The speech-" he begins, but I turn away.

"I'm off the clock."

"Toby…"

"I'm spending the evening with my wife," I tell him, going back towards the pool table, taking Ginger with me. "Talk to me tomorrow."

He disappears off somewhere else, and I turn my attention to Ginger, reaching up and brushing her hair back behind her ear. "You ok?" I ask quietly.

I get a beaming smile as my answer. "More than that," she says, slipping her arms around my waist, pressing her body against mine.

"Oh really?" My arms go around her waist too, sliding up and down her back lazily.

"Yeah. I know that I'm supposed to be a modern woman and all that, but I've got to tell you Toby…having you defend my honour like that?" Her arms tighten around me, and her eyes are locked on mine. "It's kind of a turn on."

"Oh really?" I say again, smiling as I bend my head to hers again, and we pick up the kiss where Doug interrupted us.

"Yeah…" she breathes a minute later, cheeks flushed an attractive shade of pink.

I smile down at her before asking, "So…you want to go back to the hotel? Do a little… canoodling?"

She dissolves into giggles at my choice of words, burying her head in my shoulder for a second. "Toby Ziegler, I thought you'd never ask," she manages, as we walk arm in arm to the exit. "Let's go."


End file.
